


Sacrifice, a Mummy Returns story by Sue Castle.

by glacis



Category: Mummy Returns
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-16
Updated: 2010-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imhotep screams and Sekhmet answers. Ardeth's prayers are, and aren't, answered. Rick's life gets weirder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrifice, a Mummy Returns story by Sue Castle.

Sacrifice, a Mummy Returns story by Sue Castle. Rated NC17, no copyright infringement or disrespect to Sekhmet intended.

 

_Burial Chamber of the Scorpion King_

_Lost Oasis of Ahm Shere, 1933_

He watched as Nefertiri ran forward, risking her life to save her love. His fingers cramped and his body strained as he held himself, crying out to his love, asking the same risk of her that their enemy would take. Anck-Su-Namun stared back at him, dark eyes wide with fear. Her courage failed her, or perhaps the strength of her love, pale in comparison to his. Nefertiri and O'Connell rested against a temple column as the floor opened before them. They held one another, and in their eyes he saw the love he thought he'd found an eternity before in Anck-Su-Namun's face. Betrayed, as he had betrayed his King, his Gods. His hope died, and he felt tears start in his eyes. Releasing his hold on the crumbling wall of the fissure, Imhotep spread his arms wide and allowed the souls of the damned to drag him down to the depths of the Underworld.

The earth had no place for him now, as surely hell as any he had suffered for thousands of years. With no hope, no love, no memory of a soul to complete his, he gave himself into the arms of the Damned.

His mortal body, his powers taken from him by Anubis, was torn to pieces in moments. The agony of his reborn soul continued forever. One thought remained, strong enough to transcend the hunger of the damned through the torment of ages.

She had abandoned him. He had given everything for her, and she had abandoned him.

Love grew brittle and bleak, gnarled into hate, transmuted by the agony impaling him into a single cry wrenched from the seat of his soul.

Vengeance.

She who meted out punishment to the Damned heard his cry, and answered.

 

_Encampment, south of Saqqara, Egypt _

_early September, 1934_

Ardeth Bey sat atop his horse, staring down at the last of the fires around which gathered the remnants of the Twelve Tribes. There were so many fewer than before they had stood to stop the Dog Headed Warriors, but they had done what had to be done. Anubis' advance scout had nearly killed them all, but they had raised their swords against the might of the massed armies of the God of the Dead and vowed to fight to the last man.

Thanks to his friend, the Medjai of the West, it hadn't come to that. If O'Connell hadn't sent the Scorpion King back to the Underworld, the Twelve Tribes would be dead. To the last man.

As it was, their ranks were decimated but their spirits intact. Their souls would continue to guard as they had for generations. He closed his eyes and prayed to Allah that there would be no more uprisings of the Dead. He wasn't sure he could withstand three such attacks in his lifetime.

His faith was unstoppable, his purpose as strong as it had ever been. But he was exhausted, and his men were desperately in need of time to recuperate. Opening his eyes again, he glanced up at the stars shining above his head, then down at the sand shifting beneath his horse's hooves, and sent a prayer from the heart that the trials of his Guard were over. For a little while, at least.

He forgot to pray for himself.

 

_Land of the Dead_

_Time immaterial_

His cry spun around Her thoughts like the web of a spider, singing to Her with its pain. Sekhmet the Destroyer, Queen of the Dead, turned her flame-colored eyes toward the heart of Her domain. Abandonment, hopelessness, and the fiercest anger burnt through the souls around him, scorching them, laying waste to them, leaving him alone in the center of Hell.

His soul cried not for itself, but for revenge on those who had used him, who had turned him from his righteous path in life and stolen his Godhood after death. She raised one hand, the ankh glittering gold against the blood red light bathing Her, and his soul was drawn to Her side.

"**Speak**."

Imhotep stared into the leonine features of the Goddess of Vengeance and knelt, crossing his arms over his chest. He meant to assure Her that he was Her servant. Past treason bound his tongue to the truth, refusing any pledge that he might break. Her eyes flamed and Her muzzle drew back in a snarl. He trembled. The ritual words spilled from his lips.

" O Lady, Mightier than the Gods, Adoration rises unto Thee! All beings hail Thee! O Lady, Mightier than the Gods! Preserved beyond Death that Secret Name, O Being Called Sekhmet. At the Throne of Silence even, shall no more be spoken than Encircling One! I lose myself in Thee!"

The snarl softened, but the flames didn't abate. His head fell lower, and he bargained for something more precious to him than his own soul. He prayed for the chance to extract payment for the sufferings of his life, given to and wasted by a false love.

"I offer you a sacrifice, Great Lady. Anck-Su-Namun abandoned me, her love turning to dust in my hour of need. As chief minister of Djoser I was devout to the Pharaoh and the Gods until my love for her turned me into a traitor. Even after death my heart believed her, and led me to my downfall a second time. My enemies surrounded and overcame me. All I believed true was a lie. I seek vengeance, Great Lady. I offer sacrifice."

Her head lowered toward him, eyes piercing him, seeing the purity of his hatred and the strength of his need.

"**Show me**."

Images painted themselves in the crimson air between them, Anck-Su-Namun first. The snarl appeared.

"**She is mine already**."

Nefertiri, then. Sekhmet peered at her, then waved the ankh.

"**Promised to Heaven**."

The image dissipated like incense into night air. O'Connell was next, but he was alien to Her and She ignored him. The Medjai was last, and the Goddess growled softly, hungrily, at the sight of Ardeth Bey. A smile stretched Her muzzle, and the ankh pointed directly at Imhotep's chest.

"**You have leave to bring that one to Me on My festival day. If he is a pleasing sacrifice to Me, you shall be allowed to live again and seek your vengeance on those who consigned you to My kingdom**."

The words rang through Imhotep, and he fell to the ground, clutching his temples as his mind shrank under the weight of Her pronouncement. When the red haze cleared from behind his eyes, he opened them to see not Hell, but sand. He smiled. Vengeance would be his. The Medjai would be his first victim.

He would ensure that Sekhmet received her sacrifice in good condition. But he would enjoy himself, first. He had time.

It was his right.

 

_Encampment, southeast of Merimda_

_Early October, 1934 _

The wind sighing around the walls of his tent and the whicker of the horses were a lullaby Ardeth Bey had relied upon since childhood to send him to untroubled sleep. Tonight, as they had for the last several nights, they failed him.

Dreams were portents from God, and Allah was trying to give him warning, but Bey was unable to puzzle out the clues. When the dream began, he was lost in an oasis, alone, naked, a knife in his hand. His beloved hawk, one of many casualties in the last battle with the minions of Anubis, flew above his head once again, keening a warning he couldn't understand.

The sand shifted under his feet, and he was surrounded by asps, with no fire to fight them and no means of escape. In the blink of an eye they transformed into scarabs, and swarmed him. The feel of their claws on his skin, in his hair, on his tongue, would rouse him from sleep with a scream barely stifled behind his clenched teeth.

He had taken to sleeping apart from his men, in hopes the silence would settle his mind and help him to decipher his night visions. His troops, used to strange behavior from their mystical leader, neither questioned nor followed him. On the sixth night of dreams, he finally discovered what the signs presaged.

By then, it was too late.

Bey woke with a battle cry on his lips and his sword in his hand. The tent had disappeared, leaving him in the desert under the stars. His horse and his camp were nowhere to be seen. Clad only in his loose pants, hair streaming in his eyes, he reacted to the threat before he could clearly see it.

He heard laughter, deeper and colder than a human's could be, familiar in a way he'd hoped never to hear again. Setting aside those futile hopes, sending a prayer to Allah on the same thought, Ardeth Bey steadied his sword and prepared to die.

Imhotep didn't oblige.

Attack came from all sides, and Bey swung, ducked, kicked and rolled out of harm's way each time, but his blade met only air as he attempted to fight back. The ancient bone of the hilt grew wet and hot in his grip as the ghost warriors continued to come, and he barely evaded each new wave of attackers. Threaded through the sound of his heart beating in his ears was the mocking laughter of the Monster. Below the catch of breath in his throat were thousands of scuttling feet, the scarabs waiting to swarm and devour him.

He fought until exhaustion caused him to sway on his feet, until dawn was breaking on the horizon and his arm was hanging dead against his side. Still he tried, his heart and mind continuing to fight long past the limits of human endurance, his soul unwilling and unable to cease in the battle for which it had been trained since birth.

As the sun drew high overhead, the ghosts faded away. He stumbled to a halt, leaning drunkenly on the hilt of his sword, buried tip-first in the sand. His chest heaved, air rasping through his lungs as he tried to breathe, and his limbs shook. Still, when Imhotep stepped in front of him, his arms raised and his sword shot to meet the threat, the point wavering an inch from Imhotep's throat.

"Enough, Medjai," the Monster told him gently.

"Not until you are back in Hell where you belong," Bey responded automatically. The threat was weakened by the gasps he had to take to spit it out. Imhotep laughed again. Red rage spilled across Bey's mind and he lunged forward, intent on slicing the Monster's head from his shoulders.

Imhotep caught him, turning and holding Bey as easily as if he was a child. He twisted the sword from Bey's hand and threw it far into the dunes. Bey stared after it helplessly, eyes burning with sweat, and saw the faint bloody afterimage of Imhotep's hand burned into the bone.

His men would know what had happened to him, should they find his weapon. They would know, and they would avenge him. He prayed it wouldn't be too late for the world. He knew it would be too late for him.

Determined to meet his death with dignity, Bey straightened as far as he could in Imhotep's grip and forced his trembling body to stillness. Breathing deeply, calming himself, he was surprised at the fresh scent of the Monster. No hint of death or decay. Craning his neck, he peered suspiciously over his shoulder at Imhotep.

He appeared as he had in life, clean-shaven and freshly washed, kohl ringing his eyes, power in his bearing. Only his eyes were dead. The drive Bey had seen in them was extinguished, replaced by an ice that made Bey's skin tighten.

"What do you wish of me?" he asked in the old tongue. Imhotep leaned close, placing his mouth next to Bey's ear.

"A great honor is to be bestowed upon you," Imhotep replied in the same language. "You are to be my sacrifice, my offering to the Gods. My pathway out of Hell."

Instinctively, Bey began to struggle. He'd seen the pit of souls, knew where Imhotep would take him, if not the manner of the sacrifice for which he was intended. He caught Imhotep by surprise and managed to free one hand, striking with vicious intent at the Monster's eyes, while kicking with both legs as strongly as he could and twisting to break the hold of the arm imprisoning his waist. With a startled grunt, Imhotep ducked out of the way of the fingers aiming for his face, losing his grip and allowing Bey to break free.

Bey turned on his heel and brought his other foot up, kicking Imhotep in the gut and kneeing him in the face as he bent forward from the force of the kick. Bey's arms flew out, clenched fists catching Imhotep along the back of the neck with enough force to shatter the spine of a normal man.

Imhotep exploded in a rush of air and fury. Caught in the torrent of motion, Bey found himself turned in all directions, unable to tell up from down, left from right. Blinded by sand, hands scrabbling at air, feet unable to find purchase in a world gone mad, the blow that sent him unconscious was almost a blessing.

Almost.

When his senses returned to him, he was in the oasis he'd first seen in his warning dreams. His body was suspended from a wooden rack by rope around his throat, waist and knees. His arms were bound across his body and behind his back. His hands were dead. His shoulders felt as though burning torches had been thrust into the joints, and the flame still ate at him.

The only warning he had of the descending flail was the whistle as it cut the wind, an instant before it cut into his back. He screamed before he could bite his tongue and bury the sound.

The flail rose and fell, rose and fell, from his neck to his heels, then his shins to his throat. Blood ran from his mouth, matting his beard, where he bit himself trying to stop the sounds of pain from issuing from his chest. He failed. Imhotep made no sound, simply meted out the punishment as if the flogging was a duty, not a pleasure.

Bey knew better.

Night had fallen by the time the beating finally ended. The air was cold on his skin, leaching the heat from the blood that seeped from the marks on his body. Imhotep moved close behind him, threading his fingers through Bey's hair and pulling his head back until he was forced to stand upright. The pressure in his shoulders nearly made him lose consciousness again.

"Did you know," Imhotep asked slowly, "that I was the first physician?" His other hand moved, and the cool air turned to ice as balm flowed from Imhotep's palms across Bey's abused skin.

He swallowed several times before he was able to ask the question burning his tongue. "Why do you heal me?"

"You didn't think I would leave you like this, did you?" Imhotep chuckled, and the hair at the nape of Bey's neck rose. "The Encircling One's sacrifice must be perfect. So I will have my revenge, but you will survive intact."

The balm dried as quickly as the stray drops from a summer shower, and fire bit deeply as a knife slid through the muscle along his spine, nearly to the bone. Unprepared for the abrupt change from succor to torture, Bey screamed again, his voice harsh in his throat.

"Eventually." Imhotep sounded almost whimsical, settling in behind Bey, thoroughly enjoying himself.

The pattern was set for the next three days. Time moved differently under the nearly-hallucinogenic effects of dehydration, exsanguination and exhaustion. Imhotep carved hieroglyphs through Bey's skin and muscle, along his arms bleeding down his torso, along his legs until his feet were covered in a pool of crimson sand. Words of vengeance and hatred flowed from the blade of the knife into and through the skin of his belly, his back, his buttocks, until he was nearly bled dry.

Then the balm would return, magical properties knitting the wounds, leaving his skin as pure to the fingertips as if he remained untouched. Imhotep's hands were warm, then, strong and healing, and Bey found himself leaning into them with as much fervor as he fought to escape the pain.

By the end of the third day, he could no longer tell the difference between agony and respite. Shaken to the depths of his soul, he closed his eyes and opened his heart, pouring out a prayer to the only man he knew could help him. He hoped his friend would listen.

Allah, he cried silently, be merciful. Send my brother to save me.

The fourth day, Imhotep unstrapped his arms. Arranged his body prone on the sand. Took out a single scarab. Placed it on the small of his back.

And laughed.

 

_London_ _, England_ __

_Mid-October, 1934_

The second night Rick O'Connell woke up from a sound sleep in a cold sweat, he started to wonder.

Dreams were unusual, in his experience. He didn't get them. At all. Once in awhile his wife Evy got some. They ended up being memories from a past life as an Egyptian princess. Nearly got them all killed, but in the end they'd saved the world again, stomped a bunch of bugs, rescued their son, defeated death and sent a mummy back to hell where it belonged.

Not to mention the thirty foot high bug-man with the bad attitude who'd nearly ripped him to shreds.

It was a measure of how strange his life had become in the nine years since he'd met Evy that none of this surprised him. The nightmare, though -- that made him wonder.

Because, besides the fact that he was dreaming when he just didn't do that, it was the same. Absolutely identical. All the way down the line. Both nights.

Somebody, somewhere, was trying to tell him something.

He had a feeling that something was to keep his mouth shut and break out his armory. The somewhere felt real familiar, sandy and hot and pretty unpleasant. As for the somebody ... he raked a hand through his hair and felt the tattoo on his wrist itch.

Ardeth was in trouble. Big trouble.

Not quite 'save the world' trouble, but still big. Rick had been there. Knew the kind of trouble Ardeth was in, because he'd been in it himself. Prison, especially prison in Egypt, wasn't the best place for a blue-eyed white boy to find himself. His nightmare hadn't been real precise, but it had been damned personal.

Hands, grabbing him, beating him. Too many to fight back, regardless of the fact that he was damned good at kicking ass. Dragging him down, ripping his clothes, kicking his legs apart, beating and fucking and beating him some more. The reason he knew it was Ardeth and not his own memory rearing up to bite him was because of the knife.

They'd used a piece of rope on him in prison; that could account for the flogger. But nobody'd ever used a knife.

And while there'd been bugs, there hadn't ever been a beetle that fucking big crawling on him. His back itched just thinking about it.

Evy rolled over in bed and mumbled at him, half-asleep. He soothed her absently. This didn't have anything to do with her. There were a lot of things she knew about him. Some she loved, some she didn't. There were more things she didn't know about, and if he could help it, she never would.

This was one of those things.

He closed his eyes and the nightmare flared to life behind his eyelids. An oasis, one he recognized, straight out from Memphis along one of the lesser-used trading routes. Ardeth, naked, bleeding, tied to stakes while a shadowy figure twice the size of a normal man stood over him, beating him. Cutting him. Laughing.

The tattoo itched again, deeper this time.

"God, I hate this shit," Rick groused, then carefully climbed out of bed. By the time Evy came down the stairs, Alex bouncing in her wake, he had his pack and weapons stashed in the car and his cover story in place.

Of course she didn't buy it.

"What do you mean, you have a favor to a friend that you have to take care of and you'll see me in a couple weeks?" Her eyes skewered him worse than the knife he'd been dreaming about. He took a deep breath. He knew better than to lie to her, even by omission. Before he could think of another way to put it, Alex piped up.

"Might as well tell her and get it over with, Dad. You know she's going to get it out of you one way or the other."

Rick let the breath out and grimaced. The kid really was too damned smart for his own good. Deciding to take his advice, Rick said softly, "Ardeth's in trouble, and I have to go help him." Raising his hand to stop her when she immediately opened her mouth to tell him she was going along, he added, "Alone." A mulish look crossed her face and her mouth stayed open. He shrugged. "Ardeth needs it to be that way." The look softened, but her lips didn't close. Playing his trump card, one he seldom used, he asked, "Please."

Her eyes widened, and her mouth trembled, then shut. She nodded once, stepped forward and kissed him gently. "Come back to me. In one piece."

"I will," he promised, and kissed her again for luck. For once, Alex didn't make any smart aleck comments. Rick ruffled his hair, smiled down at him, and said, "See you in a couple weeks." Turning toward the door, he tossed over his shoulder, "And Evy, I mean it. Please don't follow me. Ardeth's depending on me."

Looking back at her, he could see her reluctant agreement. She didn't like it, but she'd do it. She owed Ardeth that much. Rick took a long look at Alex before closing the door behind him.

They both did.

 

_outside Memphis_

_late October, 1934_

Imhotep stared down at the unconscious body of his victim. The Medjai High Commander was strong, and fought fear well, but most frustratingly, he was stubborn. For one so young, he had an old soul, and Imhotep was running short of time. Sekhmet's festival night was nearly upon them, and he had not yet broken the man.

As the days had gone by, the need to break Bey had begun to consume him. All Imhotep's frustrations, his disappointment and rage, had found focus on this one mortal. To fail in this, what should be a simple task, was maddening.

Curling his fingers into a cup, he caused water to appear, and cast it over Bey's body. It barely twitched. Sighing impatiently, he brought forth life-sustaining potions and knelt to spread them across the broken skin, absently tracing the rivulets of blood that seeped still from the myriad of wounds carved carefully into Bey's skin.

The skin warmed under his touch, blood rushing below the surface, muscle and bone knitting as his healing hands passed over them. Bey moaned, a low sound with as much pleasure in it as pain. Imhotep paused in his ministrations.

The Medjai were trained to withstand pain, to the point of death. It was one of the foundations of their creed. Their faith and their strength were intertwined, inseparable. An unpleasant smile crawled across Imhotep's face.

Battles were not won by playing to an opponent's strength. They were won by exploiting his weakness. His inexperience. Taking him by surprise and overwhelming him before he could muster a defense.

Concentrating, Imhotep called power to his hands and repaired the damage he had so carefully inflicted over the past few days. Lifting and rolling Bey's body supine, he leaned over his captive and dripped water over his lips. From his own mouth.

Bey was kissing him back before he completely awakened. His arms rose to clutch Imhotep's neck, and a low groan rumbled from his chest. When his eyes opened and he realized what he was doing, and with whom, he tried to let go.

Imhotep didn't let him.

What he couldn't destroy with pain, he would destroy with pleasure. Bey's eyes widened and his hands pushed out, trying to prise Imhotep away from him. Imhotep made himself immovable, then flowed around Bey, a prison of muscle and bone. Whispers of pleasure wove between them as his hands caressed Bey's flesh, fingertips re-writing the words the knife had carved before, reminding Bey with every touch of the depth of his debasement.

Shifting them against the sand, Imhotep settled between Bey's thighs, an arm reaching around Bey's back, a hand cupping his head, holding him immobile. For the first time since the screaming began, Bey attempted to speak.

"No," he whispered. His voice caught in his throat, broken by days of screaming. Imhotep smiled down at him, then covered his mouth with his own, forcing his tongue inside, enjoying the struggles he easily overcame. When he allowed Bey to breathe again, the man's cheeks were flushed and his eyes were wild.

"Yes," Imhotep answered. He rocked against Bey's torso, catching the heat between them and redoubling it. Sweat broke out on the Medjai's face. Imhotep leaned forward and licked it. It tasted sweet, of fear and denial. Denial of what Imhotep was doing to him, and of the reaction being forced from him.

Imhotep's hands drifted, tracing invisible scars along Bey's body and leaving behind fingertip-shaped bruises. Bey began to tremble under the weight of the pleasure washing over him, aroused despite himself by Imhotep's skill. The impotent rage behind the arousal amused Imhotep.

What could not be won by force could be taken by cunning. It was a lesson in strategy he'd learned well in life, and would enjoy for eternity, once he had broken Ardeth Bey and offered him to the Mistress of the Dead. His goal once again firmly in mind, no longer stymied by the stubborn resistance of the Medjai, Imhotep began to enjoy himself.

His fingers curled around Bey's erection, teasing and stroking until Bey climaxed against him with a scream that was comprised of at least as much rage as pleasure. The sound filled Imhotep, spurring him on. Forcing Bey's thighs further apart, he worked his way into Bey's body, drinking in the strangled protests and holding Bey's fists above his head, pinned to the sand. Once seated, he set a punishing rhythm, his own grunts in counterpoint to Bey's strangled shouts. It had been a very long time since Imhotep had enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh. Thinking now of those times, and the love who had betrayed him, put a drive into the motion of his hips that punished as much as it pleasured.

It was a long time before Imhotep allowed himself relief. Bey's struggles had stilled to an occasional tug of his trapped wrists, an ineffectual strike with his heels. His voice was gone, screamed out. His eyes were glazed with tears, of pain and unwilling pleasure, as Imhotep forced him to hardness and completion again, and again. When Imhotep arched against him one last time and finally spilled, Bey could do no more than growl, a pitiful sound pushed through his teeth.

Imhotep rested atop Bey, tracing the useless protective markings along his cheeks and forehead with a fingertip, smiling softly into the pain-glazed eyes of his vanquished enemy. The shadows of the setting sun painted his sweat-streaked skin in the colors of fire and blood. Sekhmet's colors. It was time.

"Now," he told Bey quietly, "you are ready for your destiny."

"Not quite, you son of a bitch!" A knife embedded itself between Imhotep's shoulder blades at the same moment he heard his hated enemy's voice. Rage surrounded him like a whirlwind as he pulled away from Bey's body, ripped the knife from his back and turned to face his new prey.

His scream of challenge echoed across the desert for miles.

 

As the days of travel from London to Memphis dragged on, the tattoo on Rick's arm stopped itching and started burning. The nightmares got worse. At least, the details got clearer.

That made them worse.

The merchant at the train depot wasn't going to sell him a camel for a decent price at first. Rick pulled out his pistol, cocked it and shoved it halfway up the man's nose in one fast move. The camel looked on, chewing reflectively. Thirty seconds later, the camel was under Rick and Rick was on his way.

The trip to the oasis seemed to take forever, but he didn't notice the slow-passing scenery. Visions were dancing in front of his eyes, mirages of pain and humiliation that made his blood boil. He held the camel's reins in his right hand, trusting the pull on the tattoo to lead him in the right direction. Weirder things had happened, and would no doubt keep happening. He wished he had a horse, but the only transport available had been the camel. As if reading his disgruntled thoughts, the camel snorted, spat, and broke into a modified trot.

He finally caught sight of them through a red haze that gathered in his eyes. All he could see of Ardeth were his heels, digging into the sand. Imhotep lay across the top of him. Rick kicked the camel in the ribs to cover the last hundred yards or so at a run, then skidded to a halt a short distance from the pair. His knife was in his hand as he slid down from the saddle. Dimly through the killing rage taking him over he heard Imhotep hiss that Ardeth was ready for his destiny.

Not nearly as fucking ready as Imhotep was about to be. Yelling a challenge, Rick let fly with his knife. "Not quite, you son of a bitch!" The knife flew true, catching Imhotep in the middle of the back and knocking him right back on top Ardeth.

"Sorry," Rick muttered, reaching for his Thompson. Ardeth didn't say anything, or if he did, Rick didn't hear it. He was busy. All hell was breaking loose around him.

Imhotep whirled away from Ardeth, turning into the same big ugly mouth creature made of sand that he'd tried the first time Rick faced him. Rick ducked, bringing his submachine gun up and firing off a burst, careful to avoid shooting up the man he'd come to rescue. The sand-face ate the bullets and spat them back, just as he expected. Diving and rolling out of the way of the incoming sand-phantom, Rick pulled another knife from his boot and slashed at the ropes holding Ardeth to stakes driven into the sand. The storm roared over them and he dropped protectively over Ardeth's nude body.

"You look like shit, buddy." A muffled snort that might have been laughter in another lifetime met his greeting. Rick grinned. "Same to you," he shot back affectionately, then tucked Ardeth's head against his shoulder, put his own head down, and shot straight up into the heart of the storm.

To his shock, the mouth actually stopped mid-roar with a sound like a giant cough. Then the world flipped upside down.

Sand disappeared, replaced by marble, granite columns and pitted sandstone. Fire surrounded them, in pots and on torches, lighting a darkness that seemed to reflect the flame right back at them. Rick opened one eye and peered up through his hair.

Directly into the face of a woman with skin the color of pure coal, eyes of fire and the face of a curious, slightly hungry lion. Oh, and she had red hair. He blinked. Shook his head. Looked again. Yeah. Red hair and fangs.

If he'd been the fainting kind, that would have been the time for it. As it was, he gulped, looked around wildly to see where Imhotep went, and tried not to think about what a lion lady might like for dinner.

As he'd thought earlier, this was his life. Getting weirder by the minute.

Over his shoulder, he caught sight of Imhotep, stalking up to them while at the same time cowering in front of the lion lady. It was an impressive performance. Not many guys could cringe and swagger at the same time. Rick scowled at him. Imhotep ignored him, stretching his arms out to the lion lady and bowing his head.

"Great Sekhmet, Goddess of vengeance, Punisher of the Damned, Mightier than the Gods! I bring before You the sacrifice You decreed on this, Your sacred night." His arms dipped, and Rick looked around to see what the hell Imhotep was waving at.

He gulped again. It was either him or Ardeth, and Rick had a nasty feeling it wasn't him.

"Think again, buster," he growled fiercely at Imhotep, holding Ardeth protectively against him. Not an easy thing to do with a guy as big as Ardeth, but Rick was determined.

Imhotep gave him a filthy look but didn't say a word. Rick flinched when a muzzle appeared next to his cheek and froze when it opened. So, lion ladies could talk. What a surprise.

"**Dare you claim what is rightfully Mine**?"

The words echoed inside his head and made it hurt. He clenched his teeth, shaking his head to get rid of the ringing in his ears. Before he could figure out what the hell she expected him to say, Ardeth finally spoke up. Not that Rick had a clue what Ardeth was talking about, either. But that wasn't all that unusual. He could live with it.

"Het Heret, Mother Goddess, Eye of Ra." Ardeth sounded like he'd been eating broken glass for a few days. Rick winced in sympathy. "I beseech thee on behalf of my brother. Mercy," his voice cracked and gave out on the word. His hands wrapped around Rick's, and the tattoo on his wrist glowed. At the same time, the symbols tattooed across his cheeks and forehead also began to glow.

Rick was busy staring at the little blue lights zapping across his friend's face and didn't realize at first that words were falling out of his own mouth. Once he caught on, he had no idea where they came from, and no way on earth of stopping them, so he let it ride to see where it would take them.

"Het-Hert, oldest of the Gods, Mother of all, Embodiment of Love, I beg you. I lay claim to that which was stolen from me. Your sacrifice, East to my West, Medjai both, the mirror of my soul."

His mouth stopped moving and he blinked. Okay. Meant diddly to him, but she looked like she was listening so it must have struck a chord somewhere. Her furry face drew back from his, and those strange fiery eyes stared at, and through, him. He felt himself shiver and sweat at the same time.

Imhotep started to say something, and she pointed a bright gold ankh at him. He gave a strangled noise and toppled to his knees. Neat, Rick thought, could've used one of those in the desert. Almost as good as Osiris' spear. The ankh rotated in the air above her hand, and she pointed it at Ardeth. Rick noticed it was the opposite side from the one she'd pointed at Imhotep that had knocked him down. He was wondering about the polarity of the power coming from it when she started to talk again and his ears started to ring.

"Damn, that hurts," he muttered under his breath. Tuning in as much as he could with his teeth rattling so hard they felt like they were going to fall out, he heard something about blessings, and devotion, and offerings. When she finally shut up, Ardeth was holding his hand, and Rick's tattoo was glowing just like all of Ardeth's. Going with his gut instinct, he unwound their fingers and aligned their arms so that their tattoos were lined up. Then he leaned forward so that the symbols could touch.

Heat sizzled from the point of contact, up his arm, into his chest, from there in a star-burst out through the ends of his fingers and toes and up through the top of his head. From the way Ardeth was twitching next to him, it was a mutual explosion.

When the fireworks stopped going off, he was draped over Ardeth a lot like Imhotep had been earlier, only without the whole sex thing going on. Then his hands started moving of their own accord, and the sex thing **was** going on. And on. All over the place.

There were bruises, hand marks, all over Ardeth, and Rick was driven to replace each and every one of them with his own fingerprints. Lip prints. Hand prints. Any kind of print he could leave. He started at the top, weaving his fingers in Ardeth's hair and gently kissing along the line of tattoos on his forehead, tracing down over his cheeks, then settling over his mouth for a kiss that just about took the top of his head off again.

Who'd've thought?

Giving up on thinking and going with instinct, Rick started in on some serious bruise-kissing. Ardeth wasn't exactly lying back and taking it, either. His hands were burrowing beneath Rick's clothes, warming themselves on Rick's back, stroking along his arms and sides and trying to hold on. Rick didn't make it easy.

He was having too much fun playing connect-the-dots with the marks on Ardeth's skin. Beneath the play was a serious mission, as Rick sought to wipe away every last trace of Imhotep he could find. He completely forgot the lion lady, looking on avidly, and Imhotep himself, wriggling uselessly over to the side, also watching them and unable to do a damned thing to stop them. By the time he was nuzzling Ardeth's crotch, the whole damned world, or underworld, or wherever they'd landed, could go to hell in a hand-basket.

Rick was busy.

Ardeth was getting his voice back, little bit at a time. The choked, rusty whisper urging him on in a mixture of Arabic, English, and an ancient language he didn't recognize did something funny to Rick's insides. Then Rick was sucking him, and Ardeth was moaning, and not long after that, Ardeth was howling and Rick was swallowing, and all was right with the world.

Well, almost right.

Strong hands, shaky now, grabbed Rick by the hair and hauled him the length of Ardeth's body. He thought about complaining, but Ardeth's tongue was in his mouth and it was too much trouble to worry about baldness when there were so many more interesting things to think about. Like Ardeth's hand, and what it was doing at Rick's groin, and how the world was suddenly made up of just the two of them. Then it was nothing but a big bright yellow ball of fire as the top of Rick's head blew off.

Again.

When he came back to himself the third time, there was a lion's face an inch from his nose. He managed not to scream, pass out or pee himself. It was a close call. Rick pasted his most charming smile on his face and raised an inquiring eyebrow. The lion lady purred.

He guessed it was better than getting chomped. Those fangs looked wicked, close up. She started talking again and he grimaced as her words reverberated in his brain.

"**Your offering pleases Me. You are free**."

She drew back and stared over at Imhotep, who was still squirming around on the sandstone floor making garbled protesting noises. Rick grinned, since her back was turned and she couldn't bite him for it. Helpless and pissed off was a good look for Imhotep.

Her hand raised, flipped the ankh over and pointed it at Imhotep. As the world started to swirl around him again Rick vaguely heard Imhotep vowing vengeance. Plotting to destroy the world in general and Rick and his friends in particular. Same sermon, different Sunday.

When the sky was back on top where it belonged and the sand was back beneath them, he took a deep breath. The sun was shining, the camel was bellowing, the oasis was still intact. Rick looked over at Ardeth, sprawled at his side.

"This isn't over, is it." He didn't make it a question. Ardeth squinted at him, and Rick squashed an inappropriate urge to kiss the man senseless, reminding himself that they were no longer in mortal danger and he was a married man.

"I fear not," Ardeth answered him solemnly.

Rick couldn't resist. "You probably should!" he said, then tossing restraint out the window, he reached over and kissed Ardeth soundly. When he came up for air, he looked down at the dazed, pole-axed Medjai warrior and told him, "Any time you need me, call. Any time."

He'd go back to reality when he got on the train to Tanis. Until then, he had time, he had Ardeth, and he had Sekhmet's blessing. Never let it be said Rick O'Connell was a man to miss an opportunity.

For the first time in his life, Ardeth Bey went down without a fight.

 

The same could not be said of Imhotep. Imprisoned at the center of the earth, his howls of rage shook the granite columns of Hell. Flame-red eyes watched him from a lion's face, intrigued by the spectacle of Imhotep's soul in agony. The cycle continued. For eternity.

_END_

 

Note : Sekhmet was one of the oldest Egyptian deities. She was goddess of many things, including vengeance, retribution, wisdom and death. She was Bast's sister and was sometimes combined with Het Heret (Hathor) in mythology, with Het Heret being portrayed as Sekhmet's gentler side. It seemed fitting that she should be the pivot for this story, in part because of her aspects and in part due to the duality of feminine nature shown in the movie through the characters of Nefertiri and Anck-Su-Namun.


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